


A Piece of the Sun

by athena_crikey



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Asahi is just one big bundle of nerves, Headaches & Migraines, Insecurities, M/M, Noya just wants to take care of him, Pre-Canon, Stress, h/c, how could I forget to tag this as h/c that's all it is, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Asahi starts falling behind and feels everyone’s eyes on him, boring into him. Suga and Nishinoya’s cheering isn’t enough to disguise the fact that he’s failing, and he spirals.In the end, Daichi replaces him with Tanaka. Puts him on the bench ostensibly to rest, but actually to get his shit together. He has a headache forming behind his left eye, a dull throb. He rubs at it with his thumb, trying to crush the pain, but it resists stubbornly.OR: Asahi gets stress migraines.
Relationships: Azumane Asahi/Nishinoya Yuu, Sawamura Daichi/Sugawara Koushi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

The first time he feels it it’s just a tiny tendril of tension creeping up his spine from his stomach, nothing more than a loose twist of his innards like he used to cause by flipping over on the playground climbing bars. Asahi’s leading the first-years’ practice on behalf of Daichi, who’s sick at home. It’s just him and Suga. No big deal. They’re the only ones who ever stay late; everyone else is gone as soon as the clock hits 6. 

Asahi’s only 15 but he’s already tall and strong, a legacy from working his uncle’s farm, and he knows that if he stays in the team he’ll be the ace in future. They’re already training him to work on his spikes and his serves rather than his receives. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. It’s nice to be wanted, certainly. But to be in the limelight? That’s never felt comfortable. And so, as he sends Suga over to receive his serves, the first creeping feeler of anxiety. 

“R-ready?” he calls from the back line, holding the ball tightly in both hands, body stiff. Suga gives a wide toothy grin and a thumbs up. Asahi tosses the ball upwards; his grip is too tight and he tosses too far forwards, steps on the line as he connects with the ball. Penalty. 

“Don’t mind,” shouts Suga, as the ball swerves off to the side and over the far back line. “You’ll get it next time.”

Asahi pulls out a second ball from the nearby basket and takes a deep breath. Tries to calm himself. There’s no need to be nervous. It’s just Suga. It’s just Suga.

He lines up, tosses, and jumps. This time the serve is clean and just barely makes it over the net, touching the white tape on the top as it tumbles over. Asahi sighs and wipes his forehead, relief washing through him. 

“Lucky squeak there, Azumane,” says someone from the doorway. Asahi turns and sees Hamamatsu standing by the door, the third year watching with critical eyes. “You’ve got a long way to go.”

Asahi swallows, failure twisting like a clenched hand inside him. “Sorry,” he says, eyes downcast. 

“One more!” calls Suga. Sweating now, Asahi reaches into the basket and pulls out a ball. Hyper-aware of Hamamatsu’s eyes on him he tosses the ball up. Too low. He hits out, but weakly, and makes contact with the heel of his hand rather than the flat of the palm. The ball arcs outwards and drops beneath the net. 

Behind him, Hamamatsu snorts and turns away. “M-maybe you should practice your serve, Suga,” Asahi suggests weakly, his pulse thready in his ears, his heart racing. Suga trots over and slaps him on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it, Asahi. You just need more practice.”

He forces a smile, the twisted feel of it more like a grimace. “Yeah. Sure.”

  
***

Asahi does practice. Alone in his back yard, he tosses and spikes the ball repeatedly into the concrete wall at the back of their property. His form is good, his spikes powerful. He’s a perfectly respectable player, so long as no one’s watching.

Fortunately as first year drags on, it becomes clear that the second and third years are taking up the entire first string of the team. None of the first years are called on to play in games, and as Asahi gets to know his teammates he slowly becomes more confident at maintaining his cool during practice. It’s not that Asahi wants to be a benchwarmer. He wishes he were out there on the court, scoring points and supporting his team. 

It’s just that the idea of being looked to, being counted on, terrifies him. Makes him break out in a cold sweat, makes his insides churn and his throat tighten. He feels the eyes of his teammates on him, _depending_ on him, and he panics. And then they lose. And there’s nothing worse than knowing their loss is his fault.

  
***

“You’re not a bad player,” the captain tells him one afternoon, after they’ve set out the line-up for their next away game and he’s once again not on it. The rest of the guys are taking down the nets and sweeping the floor; he and Asahi are standing by the door, the evening sunshine pouring in and painting the floorboards golden. “You just lack confidence. I know you can do better, Azumane. You’ve got to learn to bring your A game.”

“It’s just… I don’t want to let everyone down, captain,” mumbles Asahi, looking at his shoes. At the long shadow he’s casting on the floor. Like him it’s hunched and fearful, a perfect reflection of his worries. 

“No one does. And you won’t, if you keep working. You’ve got potential, Azumane; potential we’ll need in a year or two. Don’t disappoint us.”

Asahi nods weakly and the captain moves away. There’s a knot of tension at the back of his neck, his shoulders stiff. His temple twinges, and he reaches up and rubs it. 

He’ll do better. He has to. Everyone’s counting on him.

  
***

They don’t make it past the second round of the Spring Inter-High, and the third years leave the team. The second years still dominate, but now they’re starting to bring the first years into rotation. Starting to learn who they can count on, and who they can’t.

Daichi is solid as a rock. His receives support their libero, a strong presence on the back line. Karasuno’s defense is otherwise a weak point, and he’s elevated to regular status after the departure of the third years. 

Suga is coming on as a setter, but there’s a second-year setter who has seniority, and he doesn’t play in games despite the fact that in Asahi’s eyes he’s much more solid. He understands what his spikers need, not what he wants to give them. When he tosses it’s like an extension of support and encouragement; his tosses aren’t just easy to hit, they’re _fun_ to hit. 

And Asahi? They put him in at the tail end of one of the Inter-High games as a surprise test, and he fails it miserably. Misses his spikes and his serves, and leaves sick and dejected. Suga and Daichi try to cheer him up, but he knows he won’t be put back in a game in a hurry. In a way, he’s glad.

On the way home he has a headache, a dull throbbing sensation on the left side of his head whenever he moves. His mom gives him some Tylenol and excuses him his evening chores, and he lies in bed feeling anguished and pathetic until it slowly fades away.

  
***

The fall Preliminaries pass by, Karasuno failing to qualify for Nationals. After that, things become more relaxed. Asahi starts to hit his rhythm without the threat of being called up in a real game, and makes actual noticeable progress in the regular extra practice sessions Daichi holds. It’s just the three of them, Daichi so set on getting to Nationals; Suga loving the game and also, Asahi suspects, Daichi; and Asahi determined not to fail the team worse than he already has. As the days grow shorter they practice long into the dark evenings. Daichi and Suga understand him, understand that threats and disappointment aren’t the way to lead him to success.

He’s grateful for their support. But the thought of standing on the court as a regular still pours tension into his frame like concrete, until he’s stiff as a board with it.

  
***

Spring comes and brings with it their elevation to second year status, and a new crop of first years. Most of them seem forgettable, with two exceptions:

Tanaka Ryuunosuke, a mouthy wing spiker with an attitude who all the same plays a strong game. And Nishinoya Yuu, a petite libero with intense eyes and a flare of personality twice his size. 

“You’re huge,” Nishinoya says to him as they stand on the sidelines watching the third years warm up with spikes during the first day of practice in the new school year. “But I bet I can out-receive you.” He grins, wide and flamboyant. Utterly uncowed by Asahi’s size or seniority. 

Asahi smiles. “I bet you can too. I’m not much good at defense. I’m a wing spiker.”

Nishinoya tilts his head to the side. “Are you the club’s ace?”

“No. Nagatani-san is,” he explains, naming their strongest third-year. Nishinoya looks over to him, then back to Asahi.

“You’re bigger,” he says.

“It’s not all about size.”

Nishinoya nods. “Very true! But it shouldn’t be all about seniority, either,” he adds. Asahi wonders if he’s thinking of the ace title or his own position. Their third-year libero may have to watch his back; Nishinoya has an eager look in his eyes. 

“I guess so,” says Asahi, who privately agrees. “But it doesn’t do to say that.”

“For a big guy you’re pretty meek. Don’t you want to be ace?”

“Of course. But… I don’t want to let anyone down, either. It’s a lot of responsibility and I… well, it makes me nervous.”

Nishinoya slaps his back. “Cheer up! You’re part of a team; we rely on the ace, and the ace relies on us. As libero, it’s my job to have your back.”

Asahi blinks. “I guess you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right! It’s my job to be your lifeline, ace. Don’t forget that.”

“I’m not the ace.”

Nishinoya grins. “You will be – I can tell.”

On the other side of the court, the captain calls for the second years to step up. Asahi smiles at Nishinoya and takes his place on the other side of the net. For once, his anxiety is almost absent.

  
***

Nishinoya makes regular on the team before Asahi does. In a way it’s not surprising – the news gets out pretty early that Nishinoya won Best Libero in the prefecture last year, and in play he far surpasses their third year. Far enough to upset seniority.

It doesn’t make a difference at Spring Inter-Highs; they make it to the third round and lose badly to Date Tech. Asahi watches the game from the sidelines with his heart in his throat, his whole body whip-tense; the Iron Wall shuts out every spike the senpai make, and even Nishinoya’s receives aren’t enough to save them. 

It’s the end of the third years, he knows it that evening as they ride home on the bus. Everyone’s dejected, but the third years are the most silent. They never put in the effort, Asahi thinks cruelly, and then regrets the thought. But it’s true: they never made the effort, they never tried to build the club into something great rather than something purely mediocre, and they’re paying the price for it now.

A price Daichi isn’t prepared for the rest of them to pay next year. Now he’ll be taking over the reigns of the club and things will be different. 

Asahi will be on the court, as the new ace.

  
***

They work hard all summer at Daichi’s direction. He’s acting as both captain and coach now, running them through endless drills and practice games. They learn to work together as a team, as more of a team than they ever were under Tashiro or Kurokawa. Asahi polishes his serves and his spikes, and slowly learns to trust the back line to support him – to trust Nishinoya to support him.

The little libero makes a huge difference. He’s endlessly confident and full of energy, pushing them to keep going when they slow down and praising them when they falter. Most of all it’s Asahi who he supports, Asahi who he has recognized needs the most help to stay positive. He never stops encouraging Asahi to make another spike, to get up again when he’s sinking down, to believe in himself.

“Why do you care so much, Nishinoya?” he asks during a water break. “I’m just me – not someone special. You shouldn’t praise me so much; I don’t deserve it.”

“You’re my ace,” replies Nishinoya sternly, staring up at him with bright, intense eyes. “Not the team’s ace, not Karasuno’s ace. _Mine_. It’s my job to look after you.”

Asahi smiles at the smaller boy’s words. “I’m twice your size, and your senpai.”

“And you still don’t believe in yourself,” retorts Nishinoya. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Nishinoya…”

“Well? You’re a great player Asahi-san – and you’re a great guy. You’ve got it all: strength, height, skill. But until you stop being so afraid of failure, I think you need someone like me to remind you about it. Or am I wrong?”

Asahi ducks his head, suddenly hot. “Are you asking me to beg for compliments?” he says.

Nishinoya snorts. “You don’t have to beg me for anything, Asahi-san. For you, I’ll be whatever you need.”

Asahi looks at him and sees willful earnestness there, a kind of determined dedication. And maybe something more – something almost wistful. It makes his heart ache in a way he doesn’t understand. “Thanks,” he says softly.

  
***

The fall preliminaries will be his first official match on the starting lineup. Despite all the training they’ve done, despite Daichi and Suga’s reassurances and Nishinoya’s support, Asahi feels sick and miserable the morning of the tournament. His whole body is stiff, his muscles tense and his neck aching from it. His jaw is clenched so tight his back teeth start throbbing and he has to remember to relax. He can only swallow a glass of juice for breakfast, too nervous for anything else.

Walking onto the court in front of all the other teams, in front of the school supporters and the other spectators makes him want to throw up. He’s moving like a tin man, Nishinoya behind him hissing at him to loosen up. In the late summer heat his skin is covered already with a sheen of sweat, his face hot and flushed. The cries and cheers from the small crowd are like a lion’s roar: all-encompassing, intimidating. He runs a shaking hand over his hair. 

In front of him Suga takes his place on the line; he falls in place beside him. “Smile, Asahi-san,” says Nishinoya quietly. “This is what we’ve been practicing for.”

Asahi swallows and, at Daichi’s shout, bows to the opposing team. Then the ref’s blowing his whistle and they’re taking their places. 

Thankfully, Daichi didn’t put him in first to serve. Suga is taking on that challenge, and he serves perfectly to just inside the opposite side of the court. Play begins, Asahi screwing up his eyes tight to watch the ball and try to block out the sound of cheers and noise makers. 

“Chin up, Asahi-san!” shouts Nishinoya from the back line. “You can do it.”

The first toss comes to him; he leaps, makes contact, and slams it dead into the other side of the court. First point to them. 

He sighs, shivering. Maybe he can do this. Maybe.

  
***

The first game is a nearly even match for them, and it’s full of ups and downs. Asahi never fully unwinds, but he finds his groove and plays a decent game. They win by 3 points in the second set and Nishinoya jumps on him from behind, pounding his shoulders. “See – you _can_ do it,” he shouts in Asahi’s ear.

Asahi smiles.

  
***

Their second match is against Johzenji, a powerhouse team although not on the level of Date Tech or Aoba Johsai. The crowd is bigger now, the game more intense. Asahi feels his body stiffening up, like lockjaw spreading through his system. He tries to focus, but Johzenji has an insane energy, a kind of wicked, wild play that sends their more measured style for loops. He starts falling behind and feels everyone’s eyes on him, boring into him. Suga and Nishinoya’s cheering isn’t enough to disguise the fact that he’s failing, and he spirals.

In the end, Daichi replaces him with Tanaka. Puts him on the bench ostensibly to rest, but actually to get his shit together. He has a headache forming behind his left eye, a dull throb. He rubs at it with his thumb, trying to crush the pain, but it resists stubbornly. 

Asahi watches tensely as Johzenji overpowers them, beats them to the wall and pushes through, winning the match. The team drags itself off, heads bowed, dejected. They never had much of a chance, but it was still a chance – the loss burns like salt in a wound. 

No one has much to say as they change out of their uniforms and gather their things to go back to the bus. Asahi’s headache is getting worse, the dull throbbing spiking in time with his heartbeat when he stands or moves sharply, drilling into his eye like shards of glass. He can feel the line of his arteries like wires of pain wrapped around the side of his skull, burning into the bone. He’s never had a headache like this, such specific, intense pain. 

They walk out into the sunlight of the summer afternoon and Asahi shrinks back, shielding his eyes from the bright glare. The heat is stifling, the feel of it against his skin uncomfortable, sickening. He scrambles up into the bus and finds a seat alone on the shaded side where he shrinks up against the glass and closes his eyes. 

The team is starting to chatter now, Tanaka and Nishinoya sitting across from him trash-talking Johzenji while further ahead of him Daichi and Suga are softly discussing alternate strategies. The bus starts up, seats rumbling, and pulls out onto the road. It turns onto the road back to Karasunomachi, the sun now directly in Asahi’s eyes. He groans and buries his face in his elbow.

  
***

The drive back from Sendai is torment. It’s an hour on windy roads, and the A/C isn’t working, the bus hot and sticky. Asahi starts feeling sick not long after they pull onto the highway, the pounding in his head steadily increasing. After a while he pulls his jacket up over his head, trying to curl up into a ball and forget his agony.

“Asahi-san?” A soft hand on his back, a low voice beside him. Nishinoya. “You okay?”

“Headache,” he groans, slipping out from under his jacket and blinking groggily at the libero. Nishinoya looks concerned, his sharp-edged eyes gentle. 

“Want me to get some Tylenol from Sensei?” he asks. 

Asahi briefly considers it, considers drinking down hot metallic tap water to swallow it; his stomach flip-flops alarmingly and he shakes his head. “No; too sick,” he says. 

“Can I do anything?”

Asahi closes his eyes as they bump over a pothole. “No,” he moans, swallowing thickly. “No.”

Nishinoya’s hand tightens on the back of his shirt, fingers against Asahi’s skin. “I’ll check in on you in a little while, okay?”

He makes a wordless response and Nishinoya’s presence disappears. Asahi presses his head to the cool glass of the bus window and tries to focus on something pleasant. 

Nothing comes to mind.

  
***

They arrive at school just as Asahi’s convinced he’s going to puke into his bag. The big dusty bus rolls to a stop and everyone comes alive after the prolonged stupor of the trip; many of them had been sleeping or mulling over their loss in silence.

Nishinoya comes over to stand beside him as he gets up; standing rachets the ache in his head up to a sharp-edged pounding, like a screwdriver stabbing into his brain. “How’re you feeling, Asahi-san?”

Asahi looks down at him, raw with pain and nausea, and Nishinoya winces. “That bad, eh?”

“Sorry Nishinoya,” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his throbbing eye socket. “Don’t think I’m up for conversation.”

“’Course. C’mon, let’s get off and we can head home. I’ll walk with you.”

They navigate off the bus; Nishinoya slipping forward to talk to Daichi. The captain looks back at him, concerned, and nods. When Asahi makes his way off the bus, Nishinoya’s there waiting for him. The rest of the guys are filing into the gym for the post-game dissection; Nishinoya grabs his sleeve. “I got permission from Daichi-san to cut the meeting. You need to go home.”

He feels too miserable to argue. “Thanks,” he says gruffly, and hoists his bag over his shoulder.

Nishinoya’s house is on the way to his bus stop; the libero lives only a ten minute walk from the school. They trudge out of the schoolyard and onto the road, heading for his house. 

“Do you get headaches like this a lot?” asks Nishinoya as they walk along, Asahi too hot for his jacket despite school protocol. He sheds it and carries it, the black fabric radiating warmth in the sun. 

“Never before,” replies Asahi. “It’s awful.”

“My mom and sister get migraines; they suck ass.”

They’re almost to Nishinoya’s house, and Asahi has come to realise that he has to take the bus for twenty minutes after this. Dread sets him sweating, his stomach churning. He closes his eyes and tips sideways, bumping up against a cinder-block wall covered with purple morning glory. 

“Asahi-san? Geez, you look terrible. You’d better come in and lie down for a while before going home.”

He should refuse. He’ll be a burden, and Nishinoya’s his kouhai – he’s supposed to be making a good impression. But right now all he wants to do is lie down somewhere cool and dark and be alone. 

“Okay,” he whispers. 

Nishinoya takes him by the wrist as though guiding a toddler and crosses the street with him, leading him up the path to his house and in the front door. Asahi slips off his shoes and puts down his sports bag in the entryway beside Nishinoya’s.

“My room’s upstairs. C’mon.” He leads the way through a small but modern house, up a narrow wooden staircase to the second floor. Nishinoya’s room is small and square, with a window, desk, closet and bed. “Go lie down,” he orders Asahi, as though he were the senpai, while he pulls the curtains closed. They’re soft cotton and not very thick; diffuse light still filters through but not as much, the room painted in shades of blue and grey. Nishinoya turns on a fan on his desk and aims it at the bed as Asahi collapses onto the mattress and buries his face in Nishinoya’s pillow. It smells like the libero, of citrus and hair gel. 

“I’ll be back,” says Nishinoya quietly and disappears; Asahi curls onto his side with the throbbing left side of his head upper-most, digging his fingers into his temples. 

Nishinoya returns with a wet facecloth and a soft-sided frozen gel pack, the kind used for icing injuries and burns. Asahi sits up but he pushes him back down, kneeling on the bed beside him. “Here. This is what my mom and my sister use when they get migraines. Lie down.”

Asahi does and Nishinoya puts the cool wet cloth over his eyes; the feeling is immediately calming. Then the icepack is placed higher on his skull, the cool iciness seeping in through his hair and skin and numbing him. 

“Better?” asks Nishinoya softly. Asahi has never thought of the libero as being a soft presence – in the gym he is all confidence and brass, loud and proud – but this afternoon he’s been nothing but tender and gentle. 

“Yes. Thanks, Nishinoya.” It should be strange, being in Nishinoya’s room, in his bed. But somehow it isn’t; Nishinoya treats it like the most natural thing in the world, setting Asahi at ease. 

“No problem. I’ll go downstairs so you can rest; I’ll check on you later, or you can come down if you feel better.”

“Thanks,” says Asahi again, and hears the libero’s footsteps leave, door closing behind him.

Asahi repositions the icepack further down his forehead, his skin already uncomfortably cold. Now that he’s lying down the throbbing has been replaced by a hard pressure-like pain, constant and exhausting. He shifts until he’s lying on his side, face cloth and icepack carefully balanced, and tries to relax.

  
***

He doesn’t really sleep; if anything he falls into a sort of dull trance. His thoughts spin in leaden circles but without his real attention – later on, he has no memory of what he was thinking about.

It’s a couple of hours later by the clock in Nishinoya’s room that the libero returns, knocking softly on the door and entering. Asahi sits up; by now the cloth is long-since dried out and the icepack mostly room temperature. Nishinoya’s holding a pair of popsicles. “Thought you might want one; you should have some liquid,” he says. 

Strangely although the idea of food turns his stomach the idea of an icy treat sounds perfect. “Thanks,” he says, taking the Gari Gari-kun and unwrapping it. Nishinoya’s already happily eating his; Asahi knows from experience that he can devour it in two bites. He nibbles at his own popsicle, enjoying the coldness of the icy bites and the faint soda flavour. It soothes his stomach, just the right thing to be eating. “Is it because of your mom and sisters that you’re so good at this?” he asks as he licks a run-away droplet of blue liquid. Nishinoya’s eyes are watching his tongue, his face momentarily slack. Then he blinks and looks back to Asahi.

“I guess so.” He takes a seat in his desk chair and tosses the dry popsicle stick in his garbage, leaning back with his arms behind his head. “Do you think this is a migraine, Asahi-san?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about them, really, other than they can be really terrible. I hope it’s not, but… this is pretty terrible.”

“I guess you should see your doctor. But I mean, maybe this is just a one-off thing. Today was a weird day – going to Sendai, two full matches, a long bus ride.”

“I felt bad this morning,” confesses Asahi. “Not with a headache, but just… really nervous. I couldn’t eat breakfast.”

“See? Weird. I’m sure it’s just a one-off.”

“Thanks Nishinoya. I think I’m okay to go home now. I’ll call my mom for a ride; I’d rather not take the bus.”

“’Course. Do you want some Tylenol? Or some water?”

“Maybe some water,” says Asahi, and Nishinoya leaves to fetch it while he calls his mom and explains the situation. By the time he gets back with the glass Asahi is standing. “She’s on her way. Thanks for everything – I mean it. I couldn’t have faced taking the bus back home.”

“Anytime,” says Nishinoya, sincerely.

  
***

Asahi eats a light dinner of rice and pickles and goes to bed. He doesn’t sleep well, but in the night the throbbing slowly fades. By the next morning there’s just a dull ache behind one eye, a sort of memory of pain more than pain itself. His body feels heavy and tired, more than it would from two tense games.

The next day at school he’s cornered by Daichi and Suga the moment he droops in through the front gate, head lowered. 

“Asahi! How’re you feeling?” Suga ducks right up in front of him, peering up at him as though he were an interesting specimen in a science lab. Asahi chokes and stumbles back. 

“Gah! Suga!”

Suga smiles, prodding his chest. “Feeling better then?”

He smiles tightly, running a hand over his pulled-back hair. “Yeah. Still a bit weird. I dunno – I just felt awful yesterday.”

“Because we lost?” asks Daichi, pulling Suga away by the shoulders when he tries to prod at Asahi again (“Daichi~”). 

Asahi frowns, considering. “I don’t think so. I felt weird all day. Just… so stressed out, I guess.”

“About our match?” 

Asahi nods. “I know we’ve been working a lot, and we should have been ready – _I_ should have been ready. I thought I was. You two have been doing such a great job at practice, and with Nishinoya on the backline and Tanaka as alternate spiker… We had such a good chance. And then I blew it.”

“Asahi,” says Suga, clapping his hands down on his shoulders, “You did not blow it. We played a great first game, and Johzenji got inside all our heads.”

Daichi nods. “Suga’s right. We didn’t lose because of you. We lost because we weren’t ready – our whole team.”

“So quit it with the negativity, beardie,” adds Suga, chopping him in the side. Asahi gasps and doubles over, and Suga chuckles. “Serves you right. You need to learn to trust the team. It’s not you against the world. We’re all out there with you.” He turns to Daichi. “ _Now_ say Suga’s right!”

Daichi smiles gently. “Suga’s right.”

“Damn straight,” says Suga, smiling first at Asahi and then at Daichi – a softer, more tender smile. 

“Up for practice today?” asks Daichi, cheeks just slightly pinker than usual. 

“Of course. I’m sorry for missing the meeting yesterday.”

“We’ll tell you about it on the way to the club room,” says Daichi, and pushes both Suga and Asahi in that direction.

  
***

He does end up going to the doctor, who tells him he likely did have a migraine. He has no family history, and the doctor agrees with Nishinoya that it was an unusual day. For a one-off occurrence he’s not willing to prescribe anything; his advice is to come back if he has another.

Asahi nods, feeling awkward and uncomfortable in the white office sitting on the edge of the exam table. He leaves as soon as the doctor wraps up, hurrying out while his mother thanks their physician. 

He can only hope he won’t be back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Messed with the timelines a bit on this one, since I want to complete it before the end of Asahi's second year.

Without a coach to support them, they don’t have many opportunities to play official games – or even unofficial ones. Daichi tries his best, but most of the other schools aren’t receptive to an offer from a second-year to play a team that lost in the fall prelims. They practice on their own instead, working late into the night as school starts up again for the fall term, playing 2 on 2s and 4 on 4s. They don’t even have enough players for a full 6 on 6. 

Asahi is aware that in a way, Daichi thrives on this adversity. That constantly having to plan drills and exercises with just his own ingenuity and whatever help the internet can give is building him into a much stronger captain than either of their senpai ever were. Suga supports him as vice captain, velvet to his steel, providing a light-heartedness that Daichi sometimes lacks. Asahi’s come to love and respect them both as friends and teammates, and when he happens upon the two of them pressed up against each other in the broom cupboard he sneaks away and says nothing. They’re both great guys, and they’re clearly right for each other. 

Nishinoya and Tanaka are both chomping at the bit to play more games; they have an indomitable kind of energy that Asahi values but doesn’t really understand. But with the two of them pushing and Suga supporting, Daichi somehow manages to book a game for them.

“Against Johzenji,” he announces one afternoon in early fall, a last summer cicada still singing outside. “They’ll be playing in the fall qualifiers, and want more practice. It will be a good rematch for us.”

Asahi swallows dryly. Daichi’s right, of course – the only way to get stronger is to keep fighting. But a replay of their earlier loss holds no appeal for Asahi. He feels like he’s the only one worried about it; the rest of the team are cheering and congratulating Daichi. So he smothers his doubts and pastes on a smile.

“This time, we’ll cream ‘em – right Asahi-san?” says Nishinoya, turning to him.

“I hope so,” manages Asahi.

“C’mon, say it like you mean it!”

“We will,” says Asahi, more confidently. Nishinoya gives him a bright sunny smile and turns back to Tanaka, and Asahi sighs and lets his shoulders fall. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Daichi watching him; he gives him a pained grin and gets up to start putting away the equipment.

  
***

Asahi knows the second Johzenji match will be different. They’ll be playing on home turf without an audience, not in a huge arena as an official match. But the knowledge that this time so much will be expected of him – he’ll be fresh and ready, no excuse for poor performance – leaves him in cold sweats the night before. He wakes on the day of the game feeling shaky and nervous, his body tensing up again. He forces down some miso soup and rice, the rich salty soup sitting badly in his anxious stomach. There’s a knot of tension at the base of his skull, he rubs at it but it doesn’t relent.

He spends the day in class full of a hot, miserable dread. His mind brings up old failures, snippets of disappointment:

_You’ve got a long way to go._

_You’ve got to learn to bring your A game._

_Don’t disappoint us._

He tries to remember the good times, the victories and successes. But his mind is intent on sabotaging itself, on replaying instead his missed serves and failed spikes. The gut-churning, tight-throated sensation of loss. 

He presses his mechanical pencil into his notebook so hard he snaps the lead, the tiny shard flying off like a piece of shrapnel. Shakily he pushes the end of the pencil and tries to focus on sensei’s lecture.

  
***

Johzenji is just as off-the-wall as Asahi remembers them. Their manager tries to corral them but they’re more like little boys then grown students, chasing each other around and rough-housing and cackling during warm-up.

“We’ll be fine. We’re all in this together, remember Asahi?” reminds Suga, standing beside him as they watch their opponents run across the court. “Just remember to breathe.”

Asahi rolls his shoulders, trying to break up the tight knots that a day of sitting tensely has formed there. He takes a deep breath. It’s just a practice game. No pressure. No pressure. 

He repeats the words to himself over and over as he warms up, like a mantra, like a prayer. Then it’s time to line up.

Play begins.

  
***

He doesn’t play badly. They’ve done a lot of preparation and planning for this game, and Daichi and Suga have come up with some strategies to deal with Johzenji’s frankly almost random style of play. They play like six independent aces, not a cohesive team, and Daichi has insisted that to counter it Karasuno has to stick to the opposite: strong team-work.

They’ve been practicing that since the start of the year, and working even harder on it after the third-years left. With Suga setting and Daichi and Nishinoya on the back line, Asahi feels… not confident, but relieved. He can trust them to have his back. 

They don’t win, but they play a good game, coming close in both sets. By the end of the game, though, Asahi’s head is throbbing tightly on one side, each heartbeat pounding nails into his brain. Each lunge becomes painful, each leap agony. 

He manages to hide it through the post-match clean up and discussion, sitting quietly while the intensity of the migraine slowly increases. He sneaks out and calls his mom for a ride before they break to change, hanging up just as Nishinoya comes racing out.

“Asahi-san! I thought you’d run out on us.”

He forces a stiff smile. “Just wanted some fresh air,” he replies.

Nishinoya blinks, looking up at him, eyes sharp. “Is something wrong?” he puts a hand on Asahi’s elbow, his touch soft and warm in the cool October air. 

Asahi starts to laugh it off and feels his face freeze as a heartbeat pounds through his skull with particular strength. 

“What is it?” presses Nishinoya. “You’re upset we lost? Do you think I let you down? Asahi-san?”

He waves his hands. “No, no, not that. I think we played a good game – better than at prelims. I just… it’s my head, Nishinoya. Migraine again.”

Nishinoya’s fingers tighten over his arm, his expression shifting to concern. “Shit, man. That sucks. I’m sorry. You should go home.”

Asahi nods slightly. “I just called my mom for a ride. Just have to get changed.”

“I’ll come with.” 

They cross the dusty schoolground to the club building, climbing the stairs – Asahi slowly, head pounding – and slipping into the tatami-floored room. Asahi changes slowly, watching Nishinoya wriggle out of his t-shirt and shorts energetically. Despite his small frame his body is firm and fit; Asahi follows the flat line of his stomach and the gentle curve of his hip-bones beneath the tight cotton of his briefs. Abjectly, Asahi thinks he’s beautiful. All pale skin and flat angles. Nishinoya glances up and catches him staring; he swerves away, flushing, and concentrates more closely on dressing himself. 

“You know I’d help you if I could,” says Nishinoya quietly when they finish. “If I could kick that migraine’s ass, I’d do it.”

Asahi smiles tiredly. “I know. Thanks Nishinoya. I’ll be fine.” He opens the door, stepping out and seeing Daichi and Suga climbing the stairs. “I’m going to go now. See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” replies Nishinoya softly.

  
***

His mom takes him to the local clinic where a kindly older doctor prescribes him some meds, going into detail about how only two can be taken per day, and four per week. He tells Asahi to start a diary to keep track of when he gets his migraines so he can isolate the cause. As if he needs to.

Asahi gets the prescription filled at the neighbouring pharmacy and immediately swallows one, waiting for the pain to miraculously stop.

It doesn’t. He goes home and lies down with a wet cloth and an ice pack like Nishinoya taught him, and slowly the pain does subside, but not fully, and not quickly. He’s left with a light, uncomfortable pressure inside his skull, like a steel plate has been screwed in there and is chafing against the bone. 

He lies in bed thinking about volleyball. About whether he’s cut out for this sport – his body is clearly telling him he’s not. 

And yet… he felt almost good on the court, for a while. When he calmed down and knew that he was part of a team, that they were in this together. He _wanted_ to succeed. Wanted to be the man the rest of his team could count on. 

He still wants it, even now. 

Asahi closes his eyes. He doesn’t have to decide anything now.

  
***

They watch the fall qualifiers on TV, all huddled together in Ennoshita’s surprisingly roomy living room. Tanaka and Nishinoya bring snacks but no one eats them; they’re all glued to the TV.

Date Tech makes it to the semi-finals, blocking out all opponents. The aces on the other teams start out looking proud and willful, and end up looking totally broken. Their blocking is unbeatable, unimaginably strong. It takes Shiratorizawa’s boundless power to break through – power Asahi knows he doesn’t have. In a way they’re more terrifying than Shiratorizawa – the way they ruin aces is chilling. 

Of course, in the end Shiratorizawa wins the qualifier. There was never any doubt, really. They’re on another level entirely than the rest of the prefecture, than even Aoba Johsai. 

But somehow, the tournament doesn’t cause Daichi stress or anguish. Doesn’t terrify him. “Now’s the time to be booking away games,” he says to Suga. “Everyone’ll have plenty of time on their hands and be looking to get practice in before the spring season.”

Asahi wants to ask who he means exactly by _everyone_. But he’s too afraid to find out.

  
***

It’s Date Tech. Of course it is. Daichi somehow makes some kind of deal and arranges for them to visit the next week. Asahi tries to suggest to him that maybe they’re not ready, but Daichi’s already mentally preparing for the match. “We need to try our read blocking,” he says. “And work on our rebounds. We’re still weak on one-touches.”

For the first time, Asahi seriously considers that he’s not cut out for this club. But now he’s the ace and there’s no one ready to replace him. He has nowhere to go.

  
***

Asahi can’t sleep the night before. All he can imagine is standing on the court as spike after spike is returned to him, as he’s unable to make even a single point. As they lose the match 25-0, and the rest of the team stares at him with empty, hollow eyes.

In the morning he has a dull headache, not a migraine but just an overall malaise; he takes some Tylenol and it fades but he doesn’t eat breakfast all the same. The feeling of lockjaw spreading through his body returns, his movements stiff and uncomfortable. 

He doesn’t know how he gets through the day. Time seems to crawl miserably by, Asahi in an agony of anxiety. When the afternoon bell finally rings he’s almost shaking with it, feeling cold and sick in the chill fall air. 

“Cheer up, Asahi, this’ll be a great learning for us,” says Suga, slapping his shoulder as they get changed. He looks at him blankly, unable even to fake excitement. 

“I’ll have your back, Asahi-san,” adds Nishinoya, grinning. “I’ll keep the ball in the air for you.”

“Thanks,” mumbles Asahi, and pulls his shirt over his head to hide his despair.

  
***

They take the bus to Date Tech, a thirty minute drive. Their campus isn’t as big as Karasuno’s but their gym is decorated in past splendors – pennants and banners from old victories. Asahi stares up at them as they troop in, Date’s players already warming up on the court.

“Don’t let them get to you, Asahi-san! We can beat them,” says Nishinoya brassily behind him. 

They warm up then line up, Date’s coach on the sidelines to act as ref, bowing to each other. Then it’s time to take his place on the court. He’s serving first today which feels like an act of cruelty on Daichi’s part, but perhaps he’s trying to show that he can count on Asahi.

Either way against the odds Asahi manages a smooth serve and play begins. Date’s offense isn’t that strong, but they come in hot and heavy with their defense and it becomes clear almost immediately that they are easily as formidable as they appeared on TV. 

Asahi pummels spike after spike at them, only to be rebuffed. Nishinoya and Daichi run after the rebounds, saving them for Suga who tosses them back. It’s exhausting, and crushing. He gets a few balls past by chance – luck on his part, or mistakes on theirs – but it’s clear that his fears are being realised. The rest of the team keeps up the encouragement, keeps cheering him on, as they fall farther and farther behind. 

He’s failing. With each spike, with each run-up, he’s losing them points. His nightmare is coming true. Asahi, and Asahi alone, will lose them this game.

And he does. In the end, on match point, Suga looks to him for a final toss and he looks away. He can’t do it. He just can’t. Suga tosses to Daichi who is rebuffed, ball hitting the ground behind them after a failed dive from Nishinoya. 

The whistle blows and Asahi stumbles off the court, sick and blinded by his failure. His temple is aching, pain building behind his eye. The price of failure. 

They ride back in silence, Asahi’s agony growing with each kilometer. He fumbles in his bag for his medication and takes some, but it has no effect. This feels different, feels like a tsunami compared to a soft wave, immense and crushing. His head feels entwined by red-hot wires, his eye like it’s been scraped out of his socket with a rusty spoon. The pain is fast-building and all-encompassing; he can barely keep from whimpering. The 30 minute drive home is agony, each bump in the road sending a rail spike pounding into his brain. 

When they arrive he stumbles out of the bus, hardly able to stand. 

“Meeting,” announces Daichi. 

“I can’t,” says Asahi, thickly. “I can’t.”

“Don’t give up, Asahi-san,” says Nishinoya from somewhere behind him. “You can’t –”

“I can’t do this,” breaks in Asahi. And, before anyone can object, he runs out of the schoolyard.

  
***

He doesn’t know how he makes it home. He’s nothing but a searing ball of agony by the time he lets himself in the front door; he curls up in the entryway, his head against the wall, tears leaking out of his eyes.

“Asahi? Asahi!” His mom appears from somewhere inside the house, comes running over to hold him. “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

“My head,” he groans, trying to dig his fingers into his skull, trying to make the pain stop. He can’t see, can hardly hear. Mom keeps talking to him but he can’t make out the words. He’s sobbing in agony, unable to stop himself. Finally she pulls him to his feet and forcibly drags him outside, stuffing him into the car. 

She takes him to the hospital. He’s unloaded into the emergency bay by a kind porter and seen immediately by a nurse, then a doctor. They ask him what he’s feeling, what happened, if he’s taken any medication. He can barely force the answers out, strangled monosyllables that they write down. He’s given an injection and some of the colour fades out of the world. The pain in his head becomes distant – not gone, but farther away. He relaxes, lying in the bed and finally noticing his mother standing next to him, her face taut with worry. 

They take him for a CT scan. He’s resting when the result come back, lying in a curtained-off bed in the emergency department. “It’s good news, Azumane-kun. Nothing showed up on your CT scan. I’m afraid that means this is just an intense migraine. Obviously the triptans your GP prescribed to you aren’t effective for you – I’m prescribing a nasal spray for you to try instead.”

He nods vaguely, the words not very meaningful. Everything feels floaty and far away. “You won’t be able to take it for 24 hours, because of the other medication you took. So I’m also giving you a small supply of pain killers for until this migraine runs its course. You should stay home from school until you feel better. Alright?”

Asahi nods again, and the doctor hands his mom a small bottle of pills and a piece of paper. 

“Can he come home now?” asks his mom; the doctor nods and helps him sit up. He’s not exactly dizzy, but the world isn’t moving quite right. Mom helps him up and leads him out of the emergency room, back to their car. “I’m sorry, Asahi. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

“’S not your fault,” he whispers, leaning back in the seat. 

“We’ll make sure you get better,” she promises. 

Asahi closes his eyes and drifts off.

  
***

The pain is still there, blunt but present, the next day. He stays home from school, drugged and dozing, as the hours pass. As the sun’s setting outside there’s a knock on his door and he looks up.

Daichi comes in looking worried. “Asahi?” he says, voice unnaturally quiet. “How are you?”

Asahi blinks, then slowly sits up. “Daichi? ‘S wrong?”

“You didn’t come to school today, and you didn’t answer your phone.”

He looks at his phone vaguely; it’s sitting on the table. He picks it up and opens it; it’s turned off. “Oh,” he says.

“Your mom said you went to hospital. Is everything okay?”

Asahi sighs. “Another migraine,” he says slowly. “A real bad one. They gave me some different stuff to try.”

“Do you know what’s causing them?” asks Daichi. “Is it because we lost?” 

“It’s… oh, I don’t know.” He doesn’t want to talk about it. Doesn’t want to think about it. He feels muzzy-headed and tired. “I’m tired, Daichi.”

“Okay. I’ll go. I brought your homework,” he adds, pulling some papers out of his bag and putting them on Asahi’s desk. “Come back when you’re ready. We’ll be waiting.”

Asahi doesn’t answer and he slips out.

  
***

He feels a bit better the next day, Friday, but there’s still a dull constant pressure in his skull, and he’s still taking the pain killers, afraid to come off them. He stays home, tucked away in his dark room with wet cloths and ice packs.

That evening as the sun’s going down there’s another knock on his door and he looks up, expecting Daichi. But it’s Nishinoya who enters, looking small and scared. 

“Asahi-san?” he creeps forward, face pale grey in the poor light. 

“Nishinoya. What’re you doing here?” 

“I came to apologize.”

Asahi blinks. “Apologize?” He wonders whether the drugs are interfering with his thoughts more than he realized – Nishinoya’s not making sense. 

“When you left after the game, I thought it was because you were giving up on us. On me. You were so weird about the game with Date Tech, so tense, and I thought… I thought you were done,” he says, quietly. “And then I saw Daichi-san and he told me – you went to the hospital, your migraines…” Nishinoya swallows and, stepping forward, bows deeply. “I’m sorry!”

“Nishinoya! Don’t do that. It’s not your fault. Please.”

Nishinoya looks up, eyes wide. He slowly straightens and walks closer, crossing to stand just a ruler’s length from Asahi. 

Asahi continues, speaking slowly. “And in a way, you’re not wrong, you know. I want to play. I do. But when we play games – I get so tense. So nervous. That’s what’s giving me these migraines, I think. I read about it – stress is a major trigger. And I’m so stressed I can’t think, can’t eat. And by the end of the game I’m a wreck.”

“Does it hurt now?” asks Nishinoya softly.

“I can still feel it behind my eyes. In my skull. But it’s not exactly pain. More like pressure.”

“I can help. I mean, I can make you feel better – I do it for my sister. If you’ll let me?” Nishinoya shifts uncertainly, his clever fingers twitching at his side. 

“Um. Well, okay.” Asahi looks up at him, uncertain what he has in mind. But he trusts Nishinoya. More than anyone else on the team, he’s come to rely on him. 

“Great! Scoot down.” He pushes Asahi so that he crawls lower in the bed and clambers in on top of Asahi’s pillow, pulling Asahi’s head to lie in his lap. He puts his cool fingers over Asahi’s temples and starts rubbing slowly. He draws light circles on Asahi’s hot skin, moves his fingers to trace the strong line of Asahi’s cheekbones, over the curve of his eye socket. His touch is light, gentle, not a massage so much as just a soft presence. He draws his hands over Asahi’s eyes, down the bridge of his nose and up along his jaw, then runs his fingers through Asahi’s hair. He pulls his nails over Asahi’s scalp, the gentle scratching sending shivers down Asahi’s spine. “Feel good?”

“Mm. Yes.”

“Good.” He can hear the smile in Nishinoya’s voice. “I want to take care of you, Asahi-san.”

Asahi opens his eyes. Nishinoya’s staring down at him, his spiked hair haloing his pale face. His eyes are bright, his lips gleaming in the low light. “Nishinoya…”

“I care about you, Asahi-san. A lot. I… I really like you, you know.”

Asahi swallows, heart throbbing. Nishonoya’s fingers are buried in his hair, his legs warm under Asahi’s shoulders. “I know,” he says softly. “I like you too, Nishinoya.” He reaches up and catches hold of Nishinoya’s hand, weaving his fingers through the libero’s. The contact makes his pulse jump. “You’ve always been there for me, no matter how many times I let you down, and –”

“You’ve never let me down, Asahi-san. You played a whole game against Date Tech and got shut out almost every time, and you kept trying.”

“I gave up at the end,” he says, weakly. 

“Right before you had to go to the hospital,” replies Nishinoya, eyes flashing. His fingers tighten on Asahi’s. “You need to learn to believe in yourself. And to believe in me.”

“I want to. The more I play, the better I want to get. But when game day comes I just lose it.” He presses his eyes shut, disappointed in himself. “I can’t keep playing like this, Nishinoya. I don’t think I could take that pain again.”

Nishinoya’s free fingers brush over his forehead, his thumb tracing the line of Asahi’s eye socket. “Maybe what you need isn’t so much help on the court, Asahi-san. You’re playing pretty well now, you know. Maybe what you need is help not getting stressed out beforehand.”

He opens his eyes. “Maybe,” he allows. 

Nishinoya grins. “I can help you with that.” He runs his thumb over Asahi’s lips, the touch pleasant. “I’m a great distraction, you know.”

Asahi smiles. “I know.”

“I’m gonna support you. I told you before – you’re _mine_ ,” he says fiercely, squeezing Asahi’s hand. 

“I didn’t realise you were so committed to that,” Asahi says, but it’s not entirely true. Nishinoya has never been one to do things halfway.

“Of course I am. I’m your libero. I’ll never let you fall, Asahi-san.” 

Asahi sits up slowly, and with their linked hands pulls Nishinoya in. The libero leans forward, his eyes wide, eager. “Can I?” whispers Asahi, their lips only centimeters apart. 

Nishinoya smiles and kisses him.


	3. Chapter 3

The kiss is tempered, gentle. Nishinoya’s tense against him, but he softens as they pull apart. “Asahi-san…” he breathes the name, just a whisper that rolls against Asahi’s cheeks. 

“I can’t believe we just did that,” says Asahi, a little shocked at his own daring.

“I can’t believe we waited so long,” replies Nishinoya with a wicked grin. “Either you’ve got great restraint, or you’re awfully oblivious, Asahi-san. I’ve been coming onto you for _ages_.”

“You’re my kouhai. And my teammate. I couldn’t – I shouldn’t…”

Nishinoya cants his head to the side. “You’re not gonna get cold feet now, are you?” He looks so funny – worried and irritated and huffy, like a thwarted cat – that Asahi smiles. 

“No. I don’t think so. But I meant what I said, Nishinoya. I don’t know if I can continue with the club.”

“You’ll let me try to help before you quit. Won’t you?” 

Asahi nods. “Yes. But I don’t know what you think would help.”

“I have until our next game to figure it out,” replies Nishinoya. He stands, getting down off Asahi’s bed. “You’re looking grey, Asahi-san. You should get more rest.”

“Nishinoya… thank you.”

The libero smiles. “For kissing you?”

“For being you.”

  
***

He’s better in time for the weekend. Nishinoya texts him on both Saturday and Sunday to see how he’s doing, his messages all exuberance and spelling mistakes. Asahi spends his days off helping out at his uncle’s farm, doing mindless physical work in the cold air. It helps drive away the memory of pain, leaves him feeling strong and capable. He has a hot shower when he gets home, tired muscles relaxing under the pounding water, and then pours himself a cup of cold green tea and does some studying.

It’s the longest time he’s spent away from the gym this year. It feels weird, feels wrong. Like he’s overslept an alarm or forgotten to go to class. It’s surprising to him – for all that he’s been spending so much of his time on it, Asahi hadn’t realised just how committed to volleyball he’s become. 

All he can think is how hard it will be if he has to give it up now.

  
***

Monday morning dawns sunny and frigid; Asahi pulls on his gloves and a scarf before totting his bag up onto his shoulder and leaving the house. His breath is fogging in the morning air, white frost lying on roofs. Winter will be here soon.

He arrives at school to find Daichi and Suga already there, waiting for him just outside the front gate like a pair of gakuran-clothed shisa. “Asahi!” Daichi looks uncertain; Suga is smiling too widely. Asahi feels a tension between the three of them for the first time, a kind of uneasiness that’s never been present in their relationship before. 

“Hi,” he says, smiling awkwardly as he comes to a stop beside them. “I’m okay now.”

“You had us worried, Ace,” says Suga, and as his smile recedes Asahi sees kindness and concern in his brown eyes. “Daichi said you looked awful when he stopped by to see you.”

“Suga,” protests Daichi weakly; Suga shoots him a glance.

Asahi nods slightly. “I was still getting over it. But really, I’m better now. I spent all weekend working on the farm.”

“Good; we’ll need those muscles,” says Suga, reaching out and squeezing a bicep. Asahi squeaks and pulls back and Suga laughs. 

“Can we – can we talk?” asks Asahi. “Inside, maybe?” he adds, his feet like blocks of ice already. 

Daichi nods. “Let’s go to the clubroom.”

  
***

It’s almost as cold inside the clubroom as outside; there’s no heater and although there’s a kettle for tea stored on the shelf, it’s empty. They all sit down, Asahi holding his bag in his lap and fiddling with the strap.

“So,” says Suga, suddenly surprisingly serious. “How bad is it really?”

Asahi swallows. “It’s the stress,” he says. “I mean, I think. Before games – even the night before – I just can’t control it. I think that’s what causes the migraines. And the last one… I can’t do that again.” He looks from Daichi to Suga, scared and miserable, the memory of the searing agony in his skull still terrifyingly close. “I can’t.”

“Asahi…” Suga reaches out, touching his arm lightly. “We don’t want you to suffer. We would never want that.”

He nods shakily. “I know. But I don’t want to quit the club either. Nishinoya says…”

Suga frowns, confused. “Nishinoya?”

Daichi clears his throat softly while Asahi blushes. Suga looks between them, confusion abruptly replaced by a wicked grin. “Asahi, you _dog_.”

Asahi ignores him, looking at Daichi who doesn’t meet his eyes. “You knew,” he says, accusingly.

“That Nishinoya likes you?” asks Daichi, as though perhaps he’s talking about something else. 

“Asahi, people on the Space Station probably know that,” breaks in Suga, like it’s no big deal. “But you,” he adds, turning to Daichi, “You _meddled. Without me!_ ”

“Just a little,” admits Daichi. 

“And?” Suga leans forward towards Asahi, eyes bright. “Did you confess? Did he? _Did you kiss?_ ”

“Suga!” protests Asahi, blushing furiously. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about volleyball?”

Suga rolls his eyes. “This is much more interesting.”

Daichi takes hold of his shoulder and pulls him back. “Alright, press pause on the gossip, Koushi.”

“It’s not gossip if it’s first-hand,” replies Suga, but he settles for a meaningful look that Asahi interprets to mean he’ll be expected to spill his guts about it later. “So. What did handsome Nishinoya-kun say to you while you were in bed?”

“He said… he thinks…” Asahi suddenly realises how embarrassing this is, and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “He wants to try to keep me from stressing out,” he says softly. 

Suga’s cheeks puff up with restrained laughter, a “pffft” sound escaping. And then: “How? Is he going to distract you? He would make a great distraction, especially with his mouth on your –”

“Suga!”

Daichi looks more thoughtful. “I’m sure Nishinoya could help. But there are other ways too. Mindfulness resources, meditation, tai chi. Things like that, that focus your thoughts and your breathing. You should look into that, Asahi.”

Asahi nods. “I will.”

“So for now…” continues Daichi, watching him.

“For now, I’m still on the team,” replies Asahi.

“And if we have to do group yoga with you,” adds Suga, “just make sure Daichi is in front. His ass could distract _anyone_.”

“Suga!”

  
***

Nishinoya is surprisingly discreet about their budding relationship, which is to say he acts no differently than always. He makes faces at Asahi during warm-up; he cheers Asahi’s good plays and chivvies him along after bad ones; he pulls out the clean-up equipment for Asahi and accompanies him as they wipe the floors together. His attitude is cheerful and ebullient, his expressive face distractingly handsome. His touches, a pat on the shoulder or a smack on the back, are friendly and innocent, but in each one Asahi now reads something more: yearning.

Asahi wonders how he was so blind for so long. 

After practice they walk home together; Asahi catches Daichi smiling at him as they leave the clubroom together. He blushes slightly but holds the door for Nishinoya, then follows him out into the cold dark evening. 

“You wanna get a popsicle?” asks Nishinoya. 

“It’s practically freezing,” replies Asahi. 

“Just me, then!” He darts across the road and into Sakanoshita. He’s back in a minute, ripping the wrapper off his blue popsicle and biting into it. It makes Asahi’s teeth hurt just to watch him. When he’s done, though, he pops the wooden stick into his cheek, sucking on it emphatically. Asahi blushes in earnest. 

“Nishinoya!”

The libero gives a cherubic smile under a bright streetlight. “Just messing with you, Asahi-san.” He hitches his bag higher on his shoulder. “Did you ask Daichi-san when the next game will be?”

“No. But I did tell him I wasn’t ready to give up yet.”

Nishinoya’s smile shines. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Asahi smiles.

  
***

He does as Daichi advised and continues reading about stress migraines. Stopping the stress seems to be the obvious answer, but that’s easier said than done. He reads about acupuncture and chiropracty, about breathing exercises and tai chi.

Needles and bone-cracking sounds scary, so he sticks to at-home remedies. He starts with breathing exercises, practicing them five minutes a day before he goes to school. He begins simply, standing in front of his mirror with some calming music from his laptop. He watches himself breath in and out, in and out, as soft pipe music and waterfall sounds surround him. Imagines himself perfectly calm, perfectly at ease.

Then he imagines himself on the court at the preliminaries, the crowd watching. His breathing seizes up immediately, his heart rate shooting up. 

Too much. Way too much. He backs off and starts again. Pipe and waterfalls. Calming breathes. Relaxed, at ease. 

It’s enough to start with.

  
***

He and Nishinoya start spending more time with each other outside of practice, which is a challenge because they spend most of their non-school non-study time in the gym. But he stops by on his way home after practice and watches videos with the libero, and Nishinoya takes the bus out to see him on Saturday afternoons.

It’s too cold to do much on the farm so his parents leave them alone, and they listen to music and watch volleyball clips on youtube – and kiss. Soft, warm, tender kisses and intense erotic passionate ones. Nishinoya knows how to do this _thing_ with his tongue and it makes Asahi’s insides flip, makes his heart hammer and his cock ache. 

But Nishinoya’s only a first year, just fifteen despite all his wicked smiles and knowing glances, and Asahi refuses to do more than kiss no matter how emphatically the libero mounts his hips and twists. After a while, Nishinoya comes to accept that for now, that’s all he’s getting. 

And really, he’s awfully good at kissing.

  
***

“You’re meditating?” asks Nishinoya when Asahi casually mentions the exercises the next week. They’re on their way to school, having met up at the libero’s house. “Like, chanting and wooden gongs and monks? Are you going to shave your head? Oh, should I get Tanaka to come over?” He’s grinning and Asahi knows it’s a joke, but he still feels compelled to clarify.

“They’re just breathing exercises. You know. To help me stay calm.”

“Is it working?”

Asahi considers. He hasn’t felt any differently. But he hasn’t been particularly stressed out, either. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he says, unconvincingly. 

“Well if it does work that’s great. But it seems like there’s probably a simpler solution.”

Asahi’s brow wrinkles, confused. “Like what?”

Nishinoya smiles and jogs out ahead, running backwards. “I’ll tell you if you catch me,” he calls, and takes off. 

Asahi gapes, then starts up after him. But Nishinoya’s always been fast, faster than anyone on the team. And Asahi is a big lumbering giant. 

He doesn’t catch him.

  
***

“I’ve arranged for a game next week,” Daichi announces during evening practice. Asahi tenses up, feels both Daichi and Suga’s eyes resting briefly on him. “Just a practice match, against the community association.”

“What, a bunch of old-timers?” asks Tanaka. “We’ll cream a team of grandpas!”

Daichi smiles. “They’re only in their early twenties, Tanaka. Recent Karasuno grads. If anything, it will be closer to playing university students.”

A thrill runs around the team; playing volleyball in university is the ultimate achievement, second only to playing in the V-League. Asahi feels his heart flutter in nervousness. Behind him, Nishinoya leans forward and draws a simple kanji on his bicep: Strength. 

Asahi takes a slow, deep breath, and shakes off his trembling.

  
***

“You don’t have to play,” says Daichi to him later that evening. It’s just the two of them in the clubroom, Suga having escorted the first years to Sakanoshita for meat buns. “If you’re not ready, you can sit it out. But I thought a low stakes game might be just what you need.”

“Against university-level adults,” points out Asahi with a strained smile.

“I said that to keep the first years interested. None of these players made it into university, and their skills might even have fallen off since high school.”

Asahi looks at him. “I’m the ace. Everyone’s counting on me.”

“And I’m the captain; it’s my job to protect my players. If you tell me you’re not ready to go in, we’ll get by Asahi.” Daichi puts his hand on Asahi’s shoulder, nods. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready or not, but Nishinoya has some kind of plan, and I want to play. I think I should try.”

“I don’t think I have to tell you this, but you’d better not take things too far with Nishinoya. He’s only a first year, and…”

Asahi blushes crimson. “Daichi! I’m sure that’s not what he has in mind.”

But even as he says it, it occurs to him that waiting for the night before going all the way is exactly the kind of thing Nishinoya would plan to chase away his nerves. He swallows. Somehow now he’s even more anxious than he was before.

  
***

“I wanna come over tomorrow,” Nishinoya declares, two days before their match with the community association team. “Sleep over. Can I?” He tilts his head to the side and smiles winningly.

“Is this part of your plan?” asks Asahi. 

“Plan? What plan?” He looks sweetly innocent, like a child who’s just eaten an entire batch of cookies. 

Asahi gives him a searching look. “Am I going to approve of this, whatever it is?”

“Would I ever do something you don’t approve of?”

“At least five times a day,” replies Asahi tiredly. “I know you want to help, but whatever this plan is it’s making me even more nervous.”

“Trust me, Asahi-san! It’ll be great.”

Asahi forces a smile, wishing he could believe it.

  
***

Despite his misgivings their parents both agree to the sleepover, and the evening before the game they take the bus together, Nishinoya chatting fluently about all the plays he intends to make and Asahi looking out the window wondering where tonight’s going to go.

He knows he’s not adventurous. Knows he’s actually pretty dull, that he likes routine and order and even bland food and documentaries. Nishinoya probably finds his restrictions and his fears old fashioned and ridiculous; Nishinoya after all is the kind of person who lives life to the fullest, biting deep into everything he can and sucking it dry. And Asahi can’t help but wonder how long it is before the libero simply gets bored of him. Realises that he’s dating a dull, boring fumbler and that he could do much better. 

“Asahi-san?” says Nishinoya, breaking into his thoughts.

“Hm?”

“Isn’t this our stop coming up?”

“Oh right.” He stands, ringing the bell, and heads to the front of the bus. 

Together they walk up the hill to his house, Nishinoya now quiet beside him. All Asahi can think is that he’s planned some sort of terrifying sexual romp for tonight, that he’s expecting all the things Asahi can’t give him, that he’ll leave disappointed and upset and never come back. His jaw is starting to tense up, his heart rate speeding. Asahi tries to control his breathing, to think of the calming music and relax, but it’s hard, it’s so hard and Nishinoya is _right here_ beside him and…

“Asahi-san? Are you okay?”

Asahi looks down at the libero, aware that his face is hot and stiff. 

“You’ve been real quiet since practice ended. Is everything okay?”

He swallows dryly, stopping and leaning up against a low wall. The rock is cold against his back, drawing a frigid line across his skin beneath his shoulder blades. “It’s,” he begins, and his voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “It’s just… I don’t do well with surprises, Nishinoya. And I can’t help but think that whatever you’re planning, you’re going to be disappointed – I’m going to disappoint you – and I don’t want that but I really don’t think I’m okay with doing anything too serious and…”

Nishinoya reaches out and puts both hands on Asahi’s shoulders. “Asahi-san. Chill. I know you don’t want to get too serious. I don’t have any secret plans to ravish you tonight, okay? I promise I don’t want to do anything you’re not okay with.” Under the warm light filtering down from the streetlights overhead he looks patient, kind. His eyes all compassion and strength, his hands strong. 

Asahi takes a deep breath. “I really don’t know what you see in me, Nishinoya.” 

“I see a big strong handsome guy with a heart so huge he can hardly keep it beating sometimes. And I want to help him more than anything, because I’m in love with him. You can be afraid of a lot of things, Asahi-san, but I never want you to be afraid of me. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Asahi quietly, very aware that his kouhai is comforting him and that this is completely backwards to the natural order of things, but that somehow it doesn’t feel wrong. Nishinoya is just so sincere that it’s impossible to feel like he’s overstepping his boundaries. 

“Good! Then let’s go inside, it’s fucking freezing out here.” Nishinoya squeezes his shoulders and then heads past him towards his house, towing Asahi behind him.

  
***

“Keep Asahi-san From Getting Stressed Out Part 1: Video Games!” declares Nishinoya after they settle themselves down in Asahi’s room. “You can’t freak out about tomorrow’s match if you’re too busy losing to me at Mario Kart.”

“What about studying?” asks Asahi.

“Studying’s for people just waiting to have nervous breakdowns, Asahi-san. Live a little!” He throws himself onto the floor and sets up the Switch in front of Asahi’s TV. 

They play for an hour until Mom announces that dinner’s ready, and despite Nishinoya’s predictions it’s Asahi who comes out on top in most of their games. Dinner is beef stew, a rich thick sauce with plenty of potatoes for carbs and meat for protein. Nishinoya eats three helpings. 

After dinner Asahi helps his mother clean up while Nishinoya runs the bath upstairs. “Keep Asahi-san From Getting Stressed Out Part 2: Bath Time,” announces Nishinoya when he comes upstairs. “A nice hot soak will keep you relaxed. And I made a mix of calming music for you to listen to,” he adds, holding up his cell phone. 

“Nishinoya…”

“Go on and get ready and I’ll queue it up.” He follows Asahi into the bathroom, fiddling with his phone while Asahi slowly, awkwardly strips. He gets changed in front of Nishinoya multiple times a day, there’s nothing new or embarrassing here. At least not until he gets to his underwear, and he sees Nishinoya glance up. To Asahi’s great surprise colour comes into the libero’s pale cheeks, his face flushing. 

Nishinoya puts his phone down on the side of the sink and steps closer. The small room is hot and humid with from the bath, moisture beading on the mirror. Asahi swallows as Nishinoya presses himself closer, tilting his head upwards for a kiss. 

Heart thumping in his chest Asahi bends and meets his lips, Nishinoya opening their mouths and deepening the kiss, his hands sliding down Asahi’s smooth sides. He hooks his thumbs over Asahi’s briefs, tugging at them gently but not pulling them off. He breaks away, briefly holding Asahi’s lower lip between his teeth before finally releasing the taller boy. “Probably better if I go now,” he says, voice low and raw with hunger. His eyes are gleaming with suppressed excitement. “You’ll show me everything when you’re ready.”

Asahi feathers his fingers through Nishinoya’s hair as the libero pulls away. “Thanks,” he says.

Nishinoya presses play on his phone, then leaves with a last crooked smile. Humpback whales start singing as Asahi gets into the bath.

  
***

He takes a long bath, soaking in the warmth while Nishinoya’s phone cycles through whales to forest birds to a crackling fire. He focuses on the sounds rather than his thoughts, enjoying the pleasant, cozy white noise.

When he’s done he gets out and changes quickly into his sleeping clothes – a t-shirt and loose flannel pants – before coming out to find Nishinoya. The libero’s sitting in his room reading Jump; he looks up at Asahi’s entrance and grins. “My turn?”

Asahi nods. “Thanks for the mix, it was relaxing.”

Despite Nishinoya’s earlier protest Asahi does sneak in some studying while the other boy is in the bath. By the time he returns Asahi has finished math and history; he tucks the rest away for later and lays out Nishinoya’s futon on the floor beside his bed. 

It’s late, after ten already. Usually he would go to bed around now; he’s never been a night owl. “Are we turning in?” asks Nishinoya. 

“Unless you had something else planned?”

Nishinoya smiles. “Keep Asahi-san From Getting Stressed Out Part 3: Head massage!” He comes and sits at the head of the bed in an old t-shirt and baggy shorts, pushing Asahi’s pillow aside. He pats his thighs. “C’mon, lie down.”

Asahi slowly crosses to the bed, sitting down gingerly. Nishinoya wraps his arms around his shoulders and pulls him down; he surrenders himself, lying on top of the covers with his head in Nishinoya’s lap. He runs his hands over Asahi’s face, starting with his fingers together at the bridge of the spiker’s nose and pulling them apart, over his cheeks and then up over his ears and into his hair. Does it again, the pads of his fingers firm from over-hand receives, his skin a little cool. Asahi closes his eyes, enjoying the soft touch. 

Nishinoya draws his thumbs over Asahi’s cheekbones, following the curves up and over his eyes, stroking his eyebrows. He rubs at Asahi’s temples and then at the hinge of his jaw, loosening him up, pushing gently at the hard bone. He draws the pads of his fingers over Asahi’s eyelids, his touch gentle as falling snow. 

“Are you relaxed?”

Asahi smiles, eyes closed. “Yes.”

“Good. Tomorrow when you wake up, when you’re in school, when you’re getting ready for the match, I want you to think about this. I want you to remember my hands on your face, my fingers in your hair.” He suits words to action, drawing his fingers through Asahi’s long hair, nails scraping over his scalp. It feels delightful. “Every time you get nervous, I want you to remember this.” He runs his nails over Asahi’s skin again and again, describing lines, curves and circles. “Remember how good this feels. Remember that I’ll always be here, right behind you; that I’ve always got your back. You’re not alone on the court, Asahi-san. You never will be.”

Asahi opens his eyes. “Nishinoya…”

“You can call me Yuu, Asahi-san, you know. If you want to.”

“Yuu…” He reaches up and catches hold of Nishinoya’s hand, brings his strong, slender fingers to his mouth and presses kisses to each one. “You’re so special to me.”

Nishinoya squirms out from underneath him and flops down beside him, reaching out to push Asahi’s long hair away from his face. “Are you gonna kiss me now?” he asks, grinning.

“I think so,” says Asahi, and he does.

  
***

He doesn’t intend to share his bed with Nishinoya. In fact, intends very much the opposite. But somehow after a comfortable make-out session full of warmth and tenderness, Nishinoya falls asleep on top of his arm.

It would be easy, of course, to pick him up and put him in his own bed. But his face looks so cute while he’s asleep, his breathing soft and relaxing and the smell of Asahi’s soap in his damp hair so delightful that he can’t resist turning out the light and lying down with his nose pressed close to Nishinoya. He reaches down and pulls Nishinoya’s blanket up onto the bed and overtop of them. 

Asahi falls asleep without once thinking about tomorrow’s match.

  
***

He wakes the next morning when Nishinoya unceremoniously turns the ceiling light on and chirps: “Good morning, Asahi-san!”

Asahi groans and turns over, burying his face in his pillow. He’s still lying on top of the covers, the extra blanket draped over him. Somehow Nishinoya squirmed out of his bed without him even noticing. His hair is already spiked up, and he’s wearing his school uniform minus the jacket. 

“How long have you been up?”

“Not that long. I figured you should get a good night’s sleep!”

Asahi glances at the clock – fifteen minutes before they have to leave. He jumps up. “Oh God – breakfast!”

“Your mom’s already making it. She’s a great cook, isn’t she!” beams Nishinoya, as Asahi strips out of his pyjamas and pulls on his clothes, too frantic to remember to be embarrassed by the libero’s presence. When he’s done he hurriedly ties his hair back, stuffs his things in his bag, and follows Nishinoya down to breakfast.

They talk like completely normal teenagers over the rice and miso and grilled mackerel, about the vice principal’s wig and the principal’s new garden project and the baseball team’s antics. 

By the time they’re heading out to catch the bus, Asahi realises that he’s completely forgotten to be nervous.

  
***

The day doesn’t pass without incident, of course. He has a brief flutter of panic in second period and drops everything out of his pencil case onto the classroom floor, but Nishinoya’s words from last night come back to him: _Remember my fingers in your hair, remember how good this feels_. And he _does_. A shiver runs down his spine with the memory of the libero’s nails skating over his skin, the soft sensation of it heavenly.

It keeps him warm even in the cold classroom, even in the face of playing a team of 20 year-olds who are bigger and stronger and more experienced than them.

  
***

“How you doing, Asahi?” asks Daichi as they get changed for warm-up. Suga’s chatting with Ennoshita and Tanaka and Nishinoya are yammering away about God knows what in the corner. He can sense Nishinoya’s eyes on him, though. Patient and possessive.

“Good,” he says. “I feel good.” He’s nervous, of course. But it’s not the rust-stiff feeling of cement pouring into his bones, the crushing tension of terror. It’s just a light fluttering in his stomach. 

Daichi smiles. “Great. Because you’re serving first.”

  
***

They win two sets and lose two before three of the community association’s members have to leave to go to their evening jobs; an undecided match. Asahi plays better than he thinks he ever has in a match, spikes toss after toss onto the far side of the court and doesn’t let the returns get to him.

Best of all, he does it all without a single twinge from his head. It feels amazing, feels like a miracle. 

“Great job, Ace,” yells Nishinoya as they file off the course, smacking his shoulder. 

Asahi gives him a brilliant grin. “We did great,” he replies.

  
***

Of course it’s not that easy. Asahi still gets stressed out, still even gets migraines from time to time. But with Nishinoya’s help, with his own breathing exercises, and with the new medication from the doctor, he manages.

“Next year you’ll really be the ace,” says Nishinoya as they wait outside after the third years’ graduation. “They’ll all look up to you, all ‘ _Asahi-san, teach us!_ ’” he squeals, more like a girl than a first year.

“I’m sure they won’t,” replies Asahi, but he smiles all the same.

“We’ve all come a long way in a year.”

“Daichi’s convinced we’re going to Nationals next year,” says Asahi, catching sight of Daichi standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Suga nearby. He doesn’t wave, lets them have their moment. 

“Well, and why not? With you as the ace and me as libero, we can do anything!”

“It’s thanks to you, you know Yuu,” replies Asahi quietly, looking down at him. 

Nishinoya cants his head to the side, squinting slightly into the sun. “You were the one who fought through it all, Asahi-san. Don’t forget that. You’re stronger than you think.” He sees the rest of the first years and waves to them, finishing quietly, “And next year, you’re gonna take us to Nationals.”

Asahi smiles. “If you say so, Yuu, then it must be true.”

END


End file.
